


Salem Center Mass

by listerinezero



Category: Grosse Point Blank (1997), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Crack, Dark Comedy, High School Reunion, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, erik is a neurotic hitman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/pseuds/listerinezero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is a professional hitman and has no intention of attending his ten year high school reunion. But since he happens to have a kill lined up in the same town at the same time, he decides he may as well stop by. After all, his high school sweetheart, Charles Xavier, might be there. And it's not like he's spent the past ten years pining over Charles. Not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a Grosse Pointe Blank AU. Because it's too perfect and it's absurd that there hasn't been one already. You shouldn't need to have seen the movie, but I highly recommend it.

Erik had to admit, he was a little bit distracted during this particular kill.

He was dreaming about Charles again.

Last night it was the one where he accidentally shot Charles in the back, and as he cradled Charles in his arms, weeping over his limp body, Charles looked up at him through tears and said, "You're a monster, Erik."

Of all the dreams he had about Charles (and there were many), that was the one that always lingered the next day.

He also had the invitation to his ten year high school reunion shoved in his back pocket. He shouldn't have any identifying information on him - of all the ways he could be traced back to a kill, a stray high school reunion invite would have to be in the top five most embarrassing - but his assistant, Raven, had teasingly handed it to him on his way out the door. "I find it amusing that you came from somewhere," she'd said.

He had absolutely no intention of attending, but still, he wondered if Charles would be at the reunion.

And so, when he should have been focused on poisoning a man in his sleep – he’d been paid handsomely to make the kill look like an accident – Erik was too busy thinking about Charles. He was trying to imagine what Charles looked like now. The last time they saw each other, they were eighteen and gangly and smitten and giddy. He wondered if he still had that same floppy Hugh Grant haircut, those big blue eyes; he wondered if Charles’ smile was still lopsided, if it would still make Erik weak in the knees.

He was imagining what it would be like to sweep Charles off his feet in front of the entire class of 2001 when, in his distraction, he slipped. He missed. And his mark woke up.

“Fuck.”

With no hope left of making this kill look like an accident, Erik pulled his pistol out of his belt and held it to the man’s head, preventing him from finding a weapon of his own.

The man trembled and stared at Erik. “Whatever it is I’m doing that you don’t like,” he pleaded, “I’ll stop doing it.”

Erik shrugged impassively. “It’s not me.” And with one silenced shot, the job was done.

It wasn’t him. Erik had no personal reasons for killing the man; he didn’t even know the man’s name and he didn’t care to learn it. Erik Lehnsherr was a killer, but he was someone else’s weapon. He didn’t care about the motive or the circumstance, or any of that stuff, about morality. _If I show up at your door_ , he often said, mainly to his shrink, _chances are you did something to bring me there_. That and a paycheck was enough reason for Erik. It was his job. He was good at it. And anyway he didn’t think that what a person did for a living was a reflection of who he was.

Even so, he was definitely not going to that reunion. Being a hitman didn’t make for good small talk. And even after ten years, he couldn’t bear to imagine what Charles would say.

 

*

 

Erik stopped for a cup of coffee on his way to the office the following morning, and on his way out of the deli, he ran into his old friend, Sebastian Shaw.

Of course, “old friend” wasn’t exactly the term for their relationship: more like former mentor, current competitor, always a man who would give Erik an autopsy with a box cutter in the middle of a crowded theater and smile while doing it – at the right price, of course. But in public, when Shaw staged an accidental run in, they were old friends.

“I don’t believe it, running into you like this,” Shaw grinned and shook Erik’s hand with more vigor than was warranted, “How have you been?” Shaw bared his teeth in a way the other patrons hopefully found friendly, but made Erik slightly queasy.

“Oh, you know me. Same old same old,” said Erik, returning the sneer. “I was just walking that way,” he pointed.

“What do you know, so was I!” Shaw said, and together they continued their old friend charade down the block to an empty lot.

When they were finally alone, Shaw wasted no time in getting to the point. It was the one thing Erik appreciated about their accidental/on-purpose run-ins: they were always brief.

“I understand you had a gig last night,” Shaw said, still with that horrible smile. “One that was supposed to be mine.”

Erik didn’t flinch. He knew better than to give Shaw any hint of weakness. “The job was offered to me and I took it. I had no intention of stealing anybody else’s business.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Shaw, “But I’m hoping we can find a way so that these sort of… misunderstandings don’t happen again. I’m putting together a little concern which would enable those of us in our rarified profession to avoid embarrassing overlaps like this one in the future.”

“What, like a union?” Erik asked, as amused as he was suspicious.

“More like a club. A brotherhood. Work less, make more.”

“A very tempting offer, but no thank you.”

“No thank you?” Shaw laughed with a menacing glint in his eyes. “Do you remember Cuba? That nut with the nukes?” Erik played along, smiled and nodded his head at the shared memory. He would probably have to use the same move at the reunion, although with his classmates he wouldn’t have to reminisce about assassinating Cuban generals. “We could be working together again! The good old days! Making big money! Killing important people! I’ll get you in on the ground floor – original shares.”

“And you would be what, the president of this ‘brotherhood’?”

“Look, kid. There are more of us out there now than ever before, and employers are getting us at bargain basement prices. The market is flooded. I’m looking at consolidated bargaining. I don’t want to compete against you; we should be working together. This is real. It’s already happening. You remember Riptide? Azazel?”

“Oh, I don’t like those guys,” Erik said.

“They’re already in. Everybody’s in.”

“Yeah, well, not me.”

Shaw’s face fell, and if Erik thought his smile was menacing, that was only before he saw Shaw’s scowl. “Well, life is full of second chances. Maybe I’ll get you next time,” he said in a way that let Erik know that, either way, Shaw was going to get him.

But in an empty lot in sunny California at nine o’clock in the morning, Shaw only flashed his teeth at Erik and walked away. “Nice seeing you, kid,” he said, “Wouldn’t want to have to run into you again.”

 

*

 

Erik’s office was a small utilitarian space in a nondescript building in a quiet corner of Los Angeles. He liked to think it was a perfect reflection of himself: uncluttered, unostentatious, unremarkable, uninteresting. Years ago, back when he still interacted with people he didn’t plan to kill, he’d been called handsome once or twice. But in the end, “handsome” is a word to describe a person, and Erik didn’t think of himself as much of a person anymore.  So he kept his hair short and his face shaved clean. He wore dark suits with dark shirts and dark ties. He kept himself to himself, and if remaining unnoticed was part of the job, that suited him just fine.

He arrived later than usual because of the run-in with Shaw and found his assistant standing in the middle of the room with her arms folded over her chest.

“They’re not happy,” Raven said as he walked in the door, hands on her hips. “It was supposed to look like a heart attack. He was supposed to die in his sleep.”

Erik paused and took in her green minidress, blond bun, and petulant face. He wished that she would at least pretend to be more afraid of him than she was. “Well, Tinker Bell, he moved. He woke up. Nothing I could do.” He straightened his tie to hide his fidgeting; Raven didn’t need to know he was feeling anxious.

“They are a very valuable firm with potential for repeat business and they are blaming you for the snafu. You have to make amends. They’ve given you another job to make up for last night’s… mishap.”

He sighed. “When?”

“A canary decided to sing. They’ve scheduled the deposition for Monday morning, so you’ve got to do it this weekend. And here’s the best part: it’s in Westchester. You could take care of business and stop by Salem Center for your reunion.”

“Absolutely not,” Erik interrupted her. “It’s not happening. Tell them I can’t do it.”

“Sir, you have to. It’s out of my hands. The gods want you to go back home and they want you to delete someone while you’re there,” she said, and handed him the dossier.

He glared at her, hoping to show a fraction of the ferocity he’d seen in Shaw that morning, but the quiet thought of running into Charles tempered his glower, and in the end, he simply nodded and accepted the assignment. With Shaw’s threat still looming in the back of his mind, He really couldn’t afford to turn down work or earn any more enemies.

He was going to New York.

He was going to see Charles.

He needed to see his shrink.

 

*

 

“So I got invited to my ten year high school reunion. I’m conflicted, I mean I don’t know if I really want to go. It’s in New York. I grew up there but I honestly don’t know what I have in common with those people anymore. Or with anyone, really. I mean they’ll all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, and they’ll have made themselves a part of something, and they can talk about what they do, and what am I going to say? ‘I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How have you been?’ I just think it will be depressing.”

Dr. Emma Frost was glaring at Erik, her face unmoving, her pristine white office silent. Erik waited for her to react, and when she didn’t, he cleared his throat and repeated himself. “I said I think it will be depressing.” She only blinked at him. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something?”

She sighed quietly before responding, in a voice that reminded Erik how tired she was of having this conversation, “Erik, I am not taking notes because I am not your doctor. After four sessions, you told me what you do for a living and I told you that I was not comfortable working with you. Just because you keep showing up at my office and telling me your problems does not mean that I have changed my mind. For my personal safety and peace of mind, I have no interest in taking you on as a client. And, as I have told you countless times, if you have committed a crime or if you are thinking about committing a crime, I am required to tell the authorities.”

“I’m aware of the law, Dr. Frost, but I am very serious about this process and I find our sessions to be quite… helpful. I need your help.” He paused. He didn’t want to sound like he was begging. “And I know where you live,” he added with a smirk.

Dr. Frost stood from her chair and leaned menacingly over her desk. “Are you threatening me?” she hissed.

“Of course not,” he backtracked, “I was just kidding,” he said in the most reassuring voice he could muster. “I mean what I said: I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I know that I have issues I need to work through and I think that you can help me do that.”

Over a stern gaze, she said with an acid tongue, “Have you considered that your issues may stem from the angst of killing a lot of people?”

Erik ignored her question and changed the subject, “I’ve been dreaming about Charles again.”

She sighed back into her seat. “The man you’re obsessed with?”

Erik scoffed. “I think ‘obsessed’ is a strong word.”

“Let’s see, recurring dreams of loss and pain for ten years featuring the same person? I’m not sure the word ‘obsessed’ is strong enough.”

She couldn’t be this tart with her normal patients, Erik thought, but before he could say anything more, she stood and tapped at her dainty wristwatch.

“Time’s up, Erik. I have other appointments lined up for today.”

“That’s it?” he asked, becoming frustrated. “That’s all I get? I do pay you. You could at least pretend we have a normal doctor/patient relationship. Just give me advice, okay? What do you think? Should I go to the reunion?”

Dr. Frost frowned and, giving Erik his nickel’s worth, said, “Yes. Go to the reunion. Get out of town. Go see some old friends. Visit with Charles. Don’t kill anybody for a few days. See what that feels like.”

That was all the encouragement Erik needed. “Thank you, Dr. Frost,” he said as he stood to leave.  “I’ll give it a shot.”

“No, no shot. Don’t shoot anything.”

For the first time in weeks, Erik smiled. He had a plane to catch.

 

*

 

Erik was 10,000 feet above Nebraska en route to New York when Shaw found out that he’d lost the Westchester kill to Lehnsherr. Not twelve hours after telling him about the Brotherhood, Erik Lehnsherr had already snaked another job out from under him.

It would not happen again.

Shaw grimaced as he picked up the phone and dialed the National Security Agency. “MacTaggert? I’ve got your pigeon for you. Erik Lehnsherr. He’s arriving at JFK today. He’s supposed to hit a star federal witness. My advice to you would be you wait until he gets the witness, then you get him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoiler for The Great Gatsby.

Eight o’clock the following morning, Erik was fully dressed and pacing around his small motel room off the highway near North Salem, New York. He’d barely slept, still not believing he’d come, still plagued by dreams of Charles. He stalked back and forth over the dingy carpet, glaring at the pistol he’d laid out on his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous. He wanted to call Dr. Frost, but it was only five A.M. in Los Angeles – not that that’s stopped him before.

He raked his fingers through his hair and, with a deep breath, picked up the gun. It had been years since he’d last stepped outside without a weapon, but he remembered Dr. Frost’s advice: _Don’t kill anyone for a few days. See how it feels_. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked okay. Same as he always did, though for some reason he thought he looked taller than usual. An absurd thought. 

He decided to bring the gun.

He left the motel room and headed out to the rental car. His assignment could wait. He wanted to see his home town.

He drove around aimlessly for about an hour. He drove down Main Street, past the comic book shop where he and Charles used to hang out after school. He drove past the cemetery where his parents were buried. He drove past the house where he grew up, which he was startled to discover had been turned into an Ultimart convenience store.

Eventually he ended up at the high school, and since the drive had calmed his nerves somewhat, he decided to park the car and go inside. 

The school looked just the same as it always did, aside from a fresh coat of paint here and there, new plaques on the walls, and new fashions on the students. The lobby looked the same, smelled the same.

He was peering into the trophy case, looking for Charles’ name on the list of soccer MVPs, when he heard his name.

“Erik Lehnsherr!” a voice called, and Erik spun around to find Mrs. Kinetta, his old biology teacher.

He smiled. “Hey, Mrs. K. How are you? You look great.”

“Thank you, Erik. You’ve always been good at saying that and not sounding like a kiss ass.” She linked her arm through his and together they wandered down the hall. “My god, Erik Lehnsherr, I never thought I’d see the day. What happened? We all thought Princeton… Harvard… I lost my bet in the teacher’s pool when you went… where did you go?”

Erik shifted uncomfortably. “I guess you could say I went west. Like Davey Crockett.” They stopped in front of a classroom and Mrs. K peered up at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Are you still inflicting all that mitosis damage? It’s really a horrible subject.”

“Yes, unfortunately, biology is still on the curriculum. I know English and literature were more your forte.” She smiled, an inexplicable twinkle in her eye, and opened the classroom door. “Well, here we are!”

Erik frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. K looked confused. “You’re here to see Charles, aren’t you?” she said and led him into the classroom.

Erik may have blacked out for a second.

Charles was standing at the head of the class behind a podium. He looked… perfect. Exactly as Erik imagined him. He was taller than he’d been in high school, but not by much. He was dressed as though he’d found a teacher costume in the basement of a community theater and put it on, mothballs and all, but it suited him. His hair was short, his eyes still bright, and the expression on his face was… well, for a second there it looked like he’d seen a ghost. Not that Erik could blame him – he was probably white as a sheet.

But Charles recovered quickly and barked, “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Lehnsherr,” as though Erik were just another tardy student. “Are you going to have a seat?”

Startled, Erik just nodded and slipped into an empty desk.

“We were just discussing The Great Gatsby,” Charles continued with his lecture. “We have just found out that Daisy and Gatsby had once been in love, but that she thought that Gatsby had left her and was never coming back. How do you think that made Daisy feel? Anybody?”

Erik groaned and slumped down into his seat. He had a feeling that he was supposed to be Gatsby in this scenario, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember Daisy ever ambushing Gatsby in front of twenty-five sixteen year olds.

“Sad?” one of the students offered, and Charles wrote the word SAD on the board.

“Okay, sad. What else?” Charles asked.

“Abandoned?” one student suggested. “Disappointed?” said another. “Rejected?” “Let down?” “Alone?” “Deserted?”

Erik had the distinct impression that Charles was enjoying writing all those words in big letters for him to see, and in fact when the bell finally rang, Charles had a satisfied smirk on his face.

The students shuffled out of the classroom, ignoring Charles’ reminder to read the next chapter for Monday, and left Erik standing awkwardly next to his desk. When they’d all gone, he took a few tentative steps towards Charles and offered him a sheepish smile.

“That didn’t exactly go the way I’d planned.”

Charles grinned. “Oh, it went exactly how I’d planned!”

For a minute their eyes locked, smiling at each other in a classroom in North Salem High, and it was like nothing had changed. Erik took another step into Charles’s space and leaned towards him. It would be so easy to kiss him, right then and there, chalkboard dust on his cardigan, an open book between them, and let the past ten miserable years disappear.

But Charles’ smile fell and he looked away.

Erik swallowed nervously and took a step back. “So. How long has it been? Ten years?” he asked, as if he didn’t know the exact date he’d last been in the same room with Charles.

Charles arched his eyebrows. “You mean since you stood me up for my graduation party and vanished without a trace? Yeah, ten years I think.” He stared expectantly at Erik, waiting for him to say something, but Erik only rocked back on his heels and stared at the floor. “Well, nice of you to drop by,” he said tartly, “I suppose I’ll run into you again in 2021?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Erik interrupted him, surprising both of them. “Or lunch. Drinks. Whatever. Catch up. Talk.”

Charles took a moment to think that over, but when students started to trickle in for the next class, he gave Erik a sharp nod and named the time and place.

Erik was visibly relieved. “Good. Great,” he stammered and turned to leave. “Well, see you later.”

Charles shot him a sarcastic smile. “Right. What are the odds?”

*

Erik’s head was swimming as he walked out of the school and back to his rental car. He wasn’t so distracted, though, that he didn’t notice the Chevy Impala parked across the street, or the pretty brunette behind the wheel, or the way that she and the man in the passenger seat were pretending not to watch him.

Nor did he miss the familiar looking man who just happened to be walking past the school, just out for a stroll. With a poorly concealed weapon at his hip.

Erik got back in the car and drove back over to the cemetery. Sure, it was crass to use his parents’ graves as a place to call Raven, but it seemed unlikely that anyone would bug a graveyard.

“Pacific Trident Global, how may I direct your call?” Raven answered the office phone, using their assumed company name.

“It’s me,” Erik said, pacing in front of his mother’s headstone.

“Hey, how did the job go?”

“I haven’t done it yet.”

Raven paused. “Is there a problem?”

Actually, Erik hadn’t even looked at the papers. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask if you knew if there was anyone else in town. I’ve run into two spooks and a ghoul so far, and if they double booked the job, and/or they’re trying to kill me, I’d like to know about it. That would be great if you can find that out.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Erik hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. He was still standing in front of his mother’s headstone. Charles had been there with him when his mother died, held his hand in the hospital room in the middle of the night, watched the nurses fail to revive her.

Suddenly Erik really wanted to go home. 

So he did the next best thing: he went to the Ultimart. Where his living room once was, there were shelves stuffed with snack foods. Instead of the kitchen there was the register and cigarette displays. Instead of his mother, the only other person in there was the clerk, who had headphones in his ears and was playing a video game on his PSP, completely unaware that he had company.

The clerk didn’t even notice when someone walked into the Ultimart and opened fire. It was the familiar man who’d been walking in front of the high school earlier, a pistol in each hand, openly shooting at Erik.

Erik ducked behind a Doritos display. The chips took the brunt of the damage and orange dust went flying everywhere.

Thank God he decided to bring the gun, he thought as he whipped it out and pulled the trigger. Behind the man’s head, bullets ripped through the cardboard cutout of the Twilight characters and the iced tea bottles in the refrigerator cases burst, spilling sticky drinks all over the Ultimart floor. Erik barely had time to reload before the other man blew up a stack of Cup-A-Soup to his right.

The microwave beeped and the man fled the store. Erik ran over and saw that he’d planted a bomb in the microwave, grabbed the clerk, and flew out the door just before the whole building exploded.

Erik and the clerk lay on what used to be his front lawn and watched the building burn.

“What did you do that for?” the clerk asked him.

“It’s not me. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” he whined. “I’m hurt! I’m pissed! I gotta find a new job!”

Erik stood up and walked back to the car, determined to be far away when the police arrived. He had to call Raven back. Someone was definitely out to kill him.

And he had to get ready for his date with Charles.


	3. Chapter 3

Charles had asked Erik to meet him at the Hippo Club for drinks at 7:00, so Erik arrived at 6:40 and took a booth in the back corner against the wall. He’d spent much of the afternoon panicking that Charles would choose a table in the middle of the room, not knowing how Erik hated to leave his back exposed, especially after the incident at the Ultimart.

When 7:00 came and passed with no sign of Charles, Erik started to panic. There was only so long he could sit there sipping his scotch and watching the door before going mad. At 7:08, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dr. Frost's office.

Answering machine.

“Dr. Frost. It's Erik. Erik Lehnsherr. I just wanted to let you know that I took your advice and I came to New York and now I'm sitting in a booth at a pub waiting for Charles who I am NOT obsessed with, but he was supposed to be here eight minutes and seventeen seconds ago, and he still is not here yet, and really I'm not surprised, I mean I stood him up for ten years it's only fitting that he would stand me up for drinks, as if calling me Gatsby in front of a bunch of sophomores wasn't revenge enough. Apparently he thinks he's Daisy, which, God, I hope he's not Daisy. Also I went back to the house where I grew up but it's not a house anymore, it's an Ultimart. Actually, now it's a burning pile of rubble, but that wasn't me. No, I haven't killed anybody. This is Erik.”

He hung up, took a deep breath, and put the phone away.

Charles finally walked in, twenty minutes after seven, looking like he’d stepped right out of Erik’s recurring dreams. His teacher getup was abandoned in favor of a snug-fitting gray henley and a pair of well-worn jeans, revealing muscles he hadn't shown in high school. The sight of him made Erik’s peripheral vision go blurry – definitely a hazard in his line of work.

Charles slid into the booth facing Erik and nervously thanked him for coming.

Fortunately, Erik had the advantage in alcohol and grinned. “I would have gotten you a drink, but ‘vodka stolen from your mother’s liquor cabinet’ wasn’t on the menu.”

That seemed to break the tension well enough because Charles laughed and ordered himself a beer. Neither of them said much as they waited for the drink; mostly they just eyed each other, taking in the new lines, new outfits, new haircuts, enjoying the bewilderment of being in each other’s company after so many years apart. It was a relief when the pint finally came, and Charles practically chugged it.

“I needed that,” he said, and they both smiled. “So, Erik, what have you been doing for the past ten years?”

Of course he knew Charles would ask him that, but it didn’t make answering any easier. 

“Ah. I live in California. Travel a lot for work.” He trailed off.

“That’s it? That’s ten years?”

“Pretty much.”

“You must have had some worthwhile experiences?”

“Bad experiences.”

“You’ve met people.”

“Bad people.”

“Well, what kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a professional killer.”

Charles laughed. “Do you get dental with that?”

Erik smiled and looked away. “I don’t want to talk about me. I’m boring. I want to hear about you. How did you end up teaching at the high school? I thought you were going to go to Oxford and become some great scholar.”

Charles took another sip at his drink. “I was, yes. But then I fell in love and gave up on grad school to get married and follow him to Orlando, of all places. Then we broke up and I came home. Moved back in to the old house just in time for the recession. I couldn’t find a job, so I started subbing at the high school, and I enjoyed it so much that I decided to stay.” Charles shrugged. “That’s pretty much it.”

Erik felt as though he’d swallowed a stone. “You were married?”

“For a few years. And if you thought the Xaviers would have a fit at a gay marriage, you should have seen their reaction to my gay divorce.”

“What was the guy like?” slipped out before Erik could interrupt himself and beg, “No, don’t answer that.” Charles’ smile took pity on him. “I joined the army,” Erik offered, “That’s a like marriage of sorts.”

Charles nearly choked on his drink. “You’re kidding me. You’re in the army?”

“Not any more. But that’s what I did. After high school, I mean. After graduation. I guess you could say I had kind of a meltdown, and I went and enlisted.”

Charles gaped at him. “That’s where you were? When I was sitting heartbroken in front of my house, wondering where you were, and why you left me, and what I had done to drive you away, you were at a recruitment office joining the army?”

“At the time, it seemed like something I had to do.”

Erik had dodged seeing Charles’ heartbreak ten years ago, but it looked like he was going to get a taste of it now. Charles was going to walk out, right then and there. Say something scathing. And he deserved it, Erik thought as he braced himself.

But Charles just chuckled. “That’s psychotic.”

Erik smiled. “Believe me, you’re not the first person to call me psychotic.”

“All this time I thought you were kidnapped or murdered… at least that’s what I hoped had happened.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.” Erik rolled a toothpick in his fingers nervously. “You’re not angry, then?”

Charles sighed. “I was. I am.”

He didn’t seem angry, though, and Erik decided not to push.

Charles nudged him on. “So, you joined the army. Then what?”

Erik took a deep breath and said, “I freaked out. I joined the army. I worked for the government for a while. I went into business for myself. I’m a professional killer.”

Charles slurped at his beer. “Right. Do you have to do post-graduate work for that or can you just jump right in?”

“It’s an open market,” Erik replied miserably.

Just then a woman drunkenly backed into their table, spilling the last of Charles' beer across the table and into Erik's lap. She spun around and slurred, “Oh my gosh I'm so sorry that's. Another. I'll get you ano- hey, oh my gosh. It's Charles. And Eddie. Charles and Eddie! I don't believe it.” She slid into the booth next to Charles, abandoning the pretense of helping them clean up the spill. “It's me! Angel! From North Salem High! Go Tigers!”

Charles grudgingly took the reins of politeness and said, “Oh, sure. Angel. How are you?”

Angel looked as though she could barely hold her head up. “Charles and Eddie. Oh my gosh are you guys still together? You guys were so cute. You were, like, the coolest couple. Are you here for the reunion? I'm here for the reunion. Wait. Charles. Don't you teach at the high school?”

“That's the rumor.”

Angel looked across the table towards Erik. “And Eddie! What have you been doing for the past ten years?”

“Yeah, Ed,” Charles said, “Where've you been?”

Erik took a moment to enjoy the way Charles was smirking at him and chewing on his bottom lip before saying, “I work for Kentucky Fried Chicken.” 

Angel was just drunk enough that she almost believed him. “No. Really?” 

Charles grinned into his hand.

“It's true,” Erik said, “I sell biscuits and gravy all over the south land.”

Angel snorted. “Nooooo. You guys. You're too funny.” She put her arm over Charles' shoulder and told him, “Your boyfriend's funny. He's a funny guy.”

The darkness that fell over Charles' eyes at the word boyfriend made Erik squirm, so he stood up, excused himself, and retreated to the men's room to clean up and collect himself.

He was absolutely not surprised to find another man in the bathroom: the one from the passenger seat of the Chevy Impala. Which meant that he and the brunette were following him. And she was probably hiding in one of the stalls – he would put his money on the one with the Out Of Order sign.

“Oh, hi,” Erik said, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. The man made no response, so Erik just grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed at the beer stain on his pants. “Some date, huh? He doesn't trust me, not that I blame him,” Erik said aloud. “I don't know how I'll make him trust me again, but I don't want to go another ten years without him.” Still the man made no response. “Of course you know I'm gay. I'm sure it's in your file on me.” The man just washed his hands, still not saying a word. Erik sighed. “Well, I'm gonna go back out there, have another drink, walk him to his car, and then go back to the motel. I guess I'll see you there?” As he left the bathroom, Erik banged on the out-of-order stall and called out, “There is a ladies' room, you know.”

*

Angel was gone when Erik returned from the bathroom, and to his great relief, Charles had gotten them another round of drinks. By the time they'd finished, settled their tab, and strolled out to the parking lot, they were laughing and chatting and flirting like nothing had happened. There was a slight nip in the air, putting a blush on Charles' cheeks. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik had his jacket off and was slinging it around Charles' shoulders, leaning in to peck him on his pink nose.

“Not so fast,” Charles ducked, dodging Erik's advance. “You're still in the penalty box.”

Erik sighed. “Right.” He put his jacket back on. To his great pleasure and relief, he was starting to think the blush on Charles' cheeks wasn't entirely the weather. “So I was thinking,” Erik said, feeling brave, for once, “I could pick you up for the reunion around seven? Is that too early?”

Charles looked adorably befuddled. “What? You want to go to the reunion together?”

“Yeah. You know. I'm going, you're going, we may as well go together. Strength in numbers. You watch my back, I'll watch yours...?”

“You're asking me to go as your date to the reunion?”

“Yes. Will you go with me?” Erik asked, having a prom flashback. When Charles didn't immediately leap into his arms and agree to be his reunion date, Erik sputtered, “Take your time. Think about it. You can tell me later. It's fine.”

Charles seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the way he was making Erik squirm.

“So,” Charles asked, “Is there a Mrs. Mysterio? Do you have a secret family in Arkansas or something?”

Erik counted that as a small victory: Charles wanted to know if he's single. “No, but I do have a cat.”

“That's not exactly the same thing.”

“You don't know my cat. It's very demanding.”

“You call your cat 'it'? You don't know if it's a boy or a girl?”

“I respect its privacy.”

Erik thought, hoped, prayed that Charles was going to kiss him right then. It sure looked like he was going to. But Charles only shook his head and unlocked his car door.

“Goodnight, Erik. This was... better than expected.”

Erik grinned. “Well, you’ve always exceeded my expectations.”

That time, Charles definitely couldn’t blame his blush on the cold air. He didn’t say anything to that, but, in Erik’s mind, nothing he could have said would have topped the pleasure of rendering Charles Xavier flattered speechless.

And with that, Charles got in the car and drove away, and Erik did a little dance in the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the man and woman in the Impala gave him a round of applause.

*

Erik was in high spirits when he got back to the motel, shut the blinds, opened his computer, and called Raven for an update.

“What have you got for me?” he asked, almost in a sing-song voice.

“That town is hot!” she said.

“Start with the goons in the Impala. Who are they?”

“Moira MacTaggert and Joseph Quinn. NSA agents looking for an easy 'get' to improve their success rating. Shaw fed them you.”

“Shaw sent them after me?”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not at all. I should have known.”

“They're probably waiting to catch you in the act, but you were too fast for them, right? The job's already done, right? You're on a plane tonight, right?”

Erik looked over at the dossier for the assignment – ostensibly the reason he was in New York in the first place. It was still sitting on the motel dresser, still sealed. He hadn't touched it. “It's not done,” he told Raven.

He could hear Raven gulp. “This is not good.”

“Don't worry about it. It will get done, and I'll be back in LA on Monday,” he said, although he didn't quite believe it himself. He was starting to think that maybe there were other options for him.

In the meantime, though, he had to survive the weekend.

“What about the guy from the Ultimart?” Erik asked. “Who's he?”

“Logan Carcajou. This guy is a badass,” she raved, sounding impressed, “An accomplished amateur with the Basque Nationalists. A few odd jobs with the Algerian separatists.  Went pro with a stunning debut aboard an elite Caribbean cruise line.” 

“Oh, that's where I know him from. He's an asshole.”

“Enjoys Native American art, ballroom dancing, pornography…”

“Yeah yeah yeah. What’s he here for?”

“He was hired to kill you in revenge for that dog fuck-up last winter in Oregon.”

Erik had accidentally killed a prize schnauzer during a job in Portland, and the owner was not pleased. She'd vowed to have his head for it. Erik almost laughed. A thousand innocent people die every day, but a millionaire's pet gets detonated and you're marked for life.

“Figures.”

“Sir, I'm concerned for your safety. In my professional opinion, I think you should get the fuck out of there.”

“Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I'll regret saying this if you end up dead, but if you're willing to risk your life to go to your high school reunion, I think you might deserve what's coming to you.”

“Goodnight, Raven,” he said, and hung up the phone.

 

*

 

It was only about ten o'clock. Still early, and Erik was still riding high on his successful date with Charles. And if he was going to get killed by one of the three people tailing him this weekend, Erik decided he'd like to see Charles again one more time before he dies.

Charles' room was more like a small apartment on the back side of the Xavier house (or the X-Mansion, as they'd code named it), and it had its own entrance. Erik used their old secret knock, which of course he remembered as easily as his own name. Charles peeked out at him through the curtains, eyes wide with (hopefully) pleasant surprise.

The door swung open, revealing a pajama-clad Charles: bare feet, flannel pants and a Weezer t-shirt - and the biceps peeking out the short sleeves did not go unnoticed. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked, not unhappily.

Erik was in his own version of casual: black baseball cap, solid black t-shirt, black bomber jacket, black jeans, black sneakers. “I was in the neighborhood. Just thought I'd stop by. Is that okay? Can I come in?”

Charles hesitated only briefly before stepping aside and letting Erik in.

Charles's bedroom was a time capsule. Not a single item strayed from his vivid memory. Same posters, same knick-knacks, same blankets.

“Is that the same bed?” he asked Charles, who nodded, knowing exactly the memory Erik was thinking of at that moment.

“Same rug in front of the fireplace, too,” he added suggestively.

Erik then noticed the program from their high school production of Grease – in which Charles played a terribly miscast Kenickie. It was framed and sitting on his desk. He picked it up and shot Charles a wry smile.

“This place is a shrine. You haven't changed a thing.”

“I know. It was supposed to be temporary, but my mom and I have been getting along so well I hate to jinx it by moving out.”

“You're joking,” Erik said, genuinely surprised. “You and Mrs. X? Getting along? I never thought I'd see the day.”

Charles chuckled as he said, “Yes, well, now that we're both divorcees who like a glass of wine at one o'clock in the afternoon, we have a bit more common ground.”

Erik put the framed program back where it was, ignoring the awkward silence that had fallen between them.

“You never gave me an answer about the reunion tomorrow night.”

Charles frowned. “I said I'd tell you later.”

“It's later now.”

There was definitely a fondness to the way Charles rolled his eyes.

Erik stepped forward into Charles' space and told him, with as much sincerity as he could muster, “It would really mean a lot to me.” There were a few other things he wanted to say – that he valued their burgeoning new relationship more than he did his own personal safety, perhaps – but he held his tongue.

Charles must have seen it in him anyway because he swallowed nervously and, with surprising intimacy in his voice, said, “Okay. It's a date. Pick me up at seven.”

“It's a date,” Erik grinned, and Charles smiled back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik noticed that the blinds on Charles’ window were open, and he rushed over to shut them. To Charles’ befuddled expression, he replied, “You should probably keep those closed. There are a lot of undesirables around.” He pointed to the baseball bat from the Yankees/Mets 2000 World Series mounted on Charles’ wall and asked, “You still remember how to swing that thing, don’t you?”

Charles arched an eyebrow at him and said, “I think it’s time you went back to your hotel.”

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“Go home, Erik,” he laughed, and pushed Erik out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver Platt's character from X-Men First Class apparently didn't have a real name, so I decided that Moira's partner is Quinn from Dexter... because it's my AU and I do what I want. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Erik slept in and woke up smiling the next morning. He heard himself humming in the shower. When he got dressed and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he actually thought he looked pretty good. He was startled to find that he was actually feeling kind of... human. And humans, he decided, deserve real food, not motel coffee and a vending machine granola bar, so he got in the car and drove down the road to the diner.

There were only a few other patrons in the restaurant and one bored looking waitress, none of whom looked twice at him. Normally he didn't like to be noticed, but he'd been secretly hoping for some reassurance – for what, exactly, he did not know. That he was normal, he supposed. That he was real. That he hadn't imagined everything that had happened the day before. But the waitress just walked him to a booth (back to the wall and view of the parking lot, as requested), handed him a menu, and walked away.

He was considering ordering one of the specialty omelets – the “Left My Heart In San Fran-Cheesy” looked pretty good – when the door to the diner swung open. In walked Shaw, wearing the same menacing grin from their last meeting. This time, though, he had his hand in a paper bag, and he sure as hell wasn't pointing a bagel at him.

“Erik Lehnsherr, I don't believe it!” he said as he sat down at the table with Erik, continuing his usual old friend routine, “What are you doing here?”

Erik calmly reached for the gun strapped to his calf and pointed it at Shaw under the table. “Easy pal, I don't see hollow point wound care on the menu here.”

“On the table,” Shaw muttered, and they declared their truce by putting their weapons on the table: Shaw's still in a paper bag, Erik's under a napkin.

The waitress came over to take their order when they'd finally removed their hands from their guns.

Still staring down Shaw, Erik told her: “Cup of coffee, whole grain pancakes, and an egg white omelet.”

“And what would you like in your omelet?” the waitress asked.

“Nothing. Nothing in the omelet.”

“Well then technically that's not an omelet.”

Through clenched teeth, Erik told her, “I don't want to get into a semantic argument about it, I just want the protein, all right?”

The waitress rolled her eyes and turned to Shaw, who ordered poached eggs on toast with a fruit cup on the side, then she returned to the kitchen, muttering at what lousy customers she always got.

“Come on, Erik, live a little. Have a piece of bacon, for godssake.”

“Some guy named Carcajou blew up the Ultimart yesterday with me inside it. Friend of yours? One of your fraternal brothers?”

“Logan? That maniac? Not one of my guys. Last I heard he was living in some cabin in the woods up in the Yukon or something. I guess he came out of retirement to avenge that chihuahua.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “It was a schnauzer.” Shaw was openly laughing at him, which only made Erik more angry. “And it was an accident. I would never hurt an animal and I'm offended at the accusation.”

“Calm down, Lehnsherr. I'm just saying that this whole thing could have been avoided if you were part of my organization. We could be looking out for each other. Protecting the dog killers amongst us.”

“Would you turn two government agents on one of your 'brothers'?”

Shaw assumed a neutral expression. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I know you've got two NSA agents following me around this weekend.” Shaw shrugged. “They're right there,” Erik said, pointing out the window, “in the Impala. Look.”

Shaw leaned forward and glared at Erik. “Join the union and I'll make sure those two are at the bottom of the Hudson by midnight.”

“I'll pass,” Erik sneered, and added, “If it makes you feel any better, I think this may be my last job. I'm getting out of the game.”

Shaw scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“You think I'm lying?”

“I think you're an idiot," he taunted, his voice dripping with menace. "I know what you are. I made you. You were a just a boot with an anger management problem when I found you and look at you now. You think you can just walk out of here and do what? Work in a shoe shop? You'll be dead within a week.”

“Better dead than working for you again," Erik spit.

At that, they both drew their weapons and aimed them at each other under the table: a spaghetti western-style standoff under the back corner booth at the Salem Queen Diner.

“No scabs,” huffed Shaw, “All contracts are regulated and will go through me.”

“No deal.”

“Fine, but you're not going to do your job this weekend.”

“Oh, and why's that?”

“Because we're going to do it for you. I know the mark; it was offered to me first. And after we do your job, we're gonna do another little job.”

“And what job would that be?”

Shaw lost it. “That's the one where I put a bullet through your fucking forehead and then I FUCK THE BRAIN HOLE!”

“I don't know how anyone could say no when you're such a sweet talker.”

The waitress chose that moment to show up with Erik's not-an-omelet, and if she noticed that they had loaded weapons pointed at each other, she ignored it. Erik knocked the plates out of her hands and used the commotion as cover to get up and leave.

“Thanks for letting me know you're in town, Shaw,” he called as he walked out. He would have to find his protein elsewhere.

*

At 6:38 that evening, Erik was pacing in his motel room again, trying to figure out what he was going to say to the hometown dorks at the reunion who would ask him what he did for a living.

 _ I'm a pet psychiatrist._

 _ I sell couch insurance._

 _ I lead a weekend men's group; we specialize in ritual killings._

 _ I test-market positive thinking.  
_

But when he stepped in front of the mirror and opened his mouth, all that came out was:

“Hi. I'm Erik Lehnsherr. I'm not married, I don't have any children, and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough.”

The image in the mirror started to blur with tears and his breath started to shake, but there was no time for any of that. So he shook himself loose, did a few push-ups, and called Dr. Frost.

She answered on the third ring.

“Dr. Frost! Don't hang up! It's Erik Lehnsherr. Listen. I didn't kill anyone, except some guy tried to kill me, so if I see that guy again, I'm definitely going to kill him, but not anyone else. Except maybe the guy I was sent here to kill, but I don't know. I haven't decided yet. Anyway, I saw Charles, and I'm on the way to the reunion with Charles, but I'm feeling a little anxious, and I want to do a phoner.”

Dr. Frost sighed, and Erik thought he may have heard her bang her head against her desk.

“Okay,” she said, “Repeat after me: I am at home with the me.”

“I am at home with the me.”

“I am rooted in the me who is on this adventure.”

“I am at home with the me. I am rooted in the me who is on this adventure.”

“Now take a deep breath, and I want you to realize that this is me breathing.”

Erik took a deep breath as he was told, then huffed it out. “Wait, I'm confused. Do you want me to say that I am breathing or do you want me to realize it?”

“Say it.”

Erik took a deep breath and said, “This is me breathing.”

“Good. Now go sit in the corner and do that for about twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Keep it up. Don't kill anybody.”

“Right!” he said with new-found confidence and hung up the phone. 

Four deep breaths later, Erik looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:57. He told Charles he'd pick him up at 7:00, and it would take at least twenty minutes to get there. Charles probably thought he was being stood up again. So Erik cursed, grabbed his keys, and ran out the door without his gun.

*

Charles did look distinctly relieved when he opened the front door to the X-Mansion at 7:31, and Erik hoped he looked appropriately contrite.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I lost track of time. I would have stopped and gotten you a corsage, but then I would have been even later.”

Charles smiled. “Very funny.”

Erik stepped inside and found himself, quite against his will, gaping at Charles. “You look...” There weren't words. Delicious, maybe. The sight of him definitely make Erik want to... use his mouth. Or wish he'd foregone his usual all-black ensemble. Charles' blue button down made his eyes glow, and the open collar revealed clean skin that seemed to be calling to Erik, asking him to taste.

Erik realized he was slack-jawed and drooling.

Charles frowned at him. “Right. Same to you. Anyway, my mom's down the hall. She's dying to say hello.” He pushed him towards the living room. “I'm just going to go get my jacket and then we can go.”

Mrs. X was draped across the loveseat, sipping at a martini, and reading what appeared to be a smutty novel. It was entirely possible that she hadn't moved from that spot since the last time Erik saw her.

He cleared his throat to get her attention. “Mrs. Xavier. How are you? It's me, Erik. Do you remember me?”

She looked up from her book without actually putting it down and said, “Yes, of course. Erik. Nice of you to reappear. So soon, though – I thought the Mayans predicted 2012.”

Still in the same position and still as icy as ever.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself?” she asked. “I imagined you as one of those Brooklyn mustachioed hipsters I keep reading about in the Style Section of the Times. Eating organic lentils and 'Occupying' a garbage can.”

Erik shook his head. “No, I went the other direction. Six figure salary. Doing business with lead pipe cruelty. Sport sex, no real relationships with anyone. How about you? How have the years been treating you?”

She took a gulp from her martini. “Oh, you know me, Erik. Same old sell-out. Six figures, you say? What line of work are you in?”

“Professional killer.”

Mrs. X rolled her eyes and returned to her book. “Good for you, son. It's a growth industry.”

Charles returned then, wearing a blazer and looking impatient, and they were on their way.

*

The reunion was in full swing by the time they showed up, and the North Salem High Gymnasium was vibrating with nostalgic hits from the late 90s.

On the far side of the parking lot, Moira MacTaggert and Joey Quinn watched Erik park the rental and open the car door for Charles.

“I think it's sweet,” Moira said, dancing in her seat to “Genie in a Bottle.”

Quinn huffed. “Oh, give me a break. You really think he likes this guy?”

“It sure seemed that way from what he said in the men's room last night.”

“Come on, Moira. Look at the way they're walking.” Erik was walking slightly behind Charles with his hand against the small of Charles' back. “He's practically using him as a human shield.” Quinn shook his head. “I'm gonna enjoy killing that son of a bitch.”

*

When they reached the door, Erik stopped. He checked his pockets. He checked his legs. He checked his hips.

“What's wrong?” Charles asked. “Did you forget your wallet?”

“I forgot my gun,” Erik breathed.

“What?”

“I said this should be fun!”

Too late now. Erik held the door open for Charles and together they headed into the reunion.


	5. Chapter 5

Talking about attending the reunion and thinking about attending the reunion and imagining carrying Charles out of the reunion in his arms like the end of An Officer and a Gentleman were all very, very different from actually attending the actual reunion in the actual gymnasium where he was once fouled for using his elbows in J.V. basketball, surrounded by one hundred and fifty of his is fellow living, breathing NSH Class of ’01 graduates. With Charles Xavier! Unarmed! ‘N Sync playing in the background! Erik was beginning to have palpitations.

They took precisely two steps in the door before Erik froze in front of the registration table, which was littered with name tags and yearbook photos, and broke out in a cold sweat. This was a mistake. This was a huge mistake.

Charles noticed that Erik was no longer at his side and turned around.

Erik was on the verge of begging when he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to go… somewhere else? We could go back to your house. Play chess. Hang out with Mrs. X. I’m sure she’s got a few more zingers for me.”

To Erik’s delight, Charles took his hand, and with empathy – not pity – said, “We’ll go in, see how it is, and if you still want to leave in a half an hour, we will. Okay?”

Even better: when Erik lifted Charles’ hand to his mouth and kissed it in gratitude, Charles didn’t run screaming. He only gave Erik a soft smile and a reassuring nod and led him to the table to pick out their name tags.

This must be what it’s like, Erik thought. To have someone other than Dr. Frost’s answering machine to talk to when he was upset.

They were greeted enthusiastically by a woman Erik didn’t recognize, and he was too distracted by Charles’ hand on his hip to care. They pushed past her, crossed the threshold, and into the party.

“Straight to the bar?” Erik asked Charles.

“Right behind you.”

They weaved their way through the awkward throngs attempting to dance to “No Scrubs” by TLC and made their way to the bar: a folding table draped in NSH’s school colors and decked out with a bucket of ice, a cooler full of beer, some solo cups, and about 20 half-empty bottles of off-brand liquor.

Charles was mixing them a pair of whisky-and-Cokes when they were approached by their first well-wisher: Hank McCoy, who, Erik thought, greeted them with all the warmth of a used car salesman. He wasn’t far off.

“What are you up to these days, Hank?” Charles asked.

“I’m in pharmaceutical sales. It’s really a wonder the things modern science can do, the miracles they can pack into one little pill. Hey, Erik, did you know that there’s a new alternative to Rogaine on the market? It’s called Trenoxidil, and it’s prescription only, but it’s going to revolutionize anti-hair loss technology over the next ten years.”

Charles was laughing so hard that his drink almost went through his nose.

“I’m not losing my hair, Hank.”

“Of course not! Of course not. But we’re all getting older, and if you or your loved ones,” and at that he looked over at Charles, who was still howling, “find that your – ahem – temples might be retreating a bit, talk to your doctor, and ask him about Trenoxidil. Here, have a pen.” Hank reached into his pocket and handed Erik a rather nice ballpoint pen. The cap read: _Trenoxidil – Because your hair is you. Side effects may include chest pain, dizziness, fainting, weight gain, swelling of hands and feet, or death._

“Yeah. Thanks, Hank,” he mumbled and put the pen in his jacket pocket.

When Hank walked away, Charles buried his face in Erik’s chest, tears of laughter wetting Erik’s crisp black shirt.

Erik couldn’t help but smile. “It’s really not that funny,” he said, and patted Charles on the back.

Charles recovered himself – barely. “No, of course not. It’s very serious,” he said as he wiped his eyes, and let out one more burst of laughter before he calmed down.

Erik was admiring the happiness on Charles’ face – even if it was at his own expense – when someone approached him from behind, and on instinct, he swung around, knocked his assailant to the ground, knelt down on the man’s ribs, and went for the throat.

“Erik, stop!” Charles yelled.

“It’s me!” the man beneath him yelped. “Sean Cassidy! From high school!”

Erik stopped. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He stood up and helped Sean to his feet. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” Sean brushed himself off. “Did I hurt you?”

He shrugged. “Nothing that can’t be solved with a little herb. That’s why I was coming over here. You guys want to go back behind the school and smoke a fat one? Like the old days! Get completely toasted just like in high school!”

“No thanks,” Erik told him, and noticed that Charles looked relieved.

“You do remember I work here now, right?” Charles asked, and Sean just shrugged.

“Whatever, man. You know where I’ll be if you change your mind,” he told them and wandered off.

Erik wasn’t feeling any less anxious, so he turned to Charles and asked, “Do you mind if we maybe get off the dance floor? Find a quieter spot?”

“Good idea,” he responded, and they headed towards the back of the gym, away from the DJ booth.

Along the way, Erik heard Charles burst, “Oh my god, Lorna!” He turned and saw their old friend sitting at a table, holding a baby in her lap. She looked exactly the same – she still had green streaks in her hair and two or three extra piercings in each ear – and she looked genuinely happy to see the pair of them walk over to her.

“You made it!” she smiled.

“Lorna!” Charles kissed her on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you since you had the baby! I don’t believe it! How are you?”

“I’m great! Really great,” she beamed and turned to Erik. “It’s so good to see you again, Erik. You look so grown up!”

Erik smiled in spite of himself and thanked her.

Charles asked her, “Where’s Alex?”

“He’s over by the bar somewhere, I think.” She noticed the way Charles was making faces at the baby, giving him his finger to gnaw on. “This is Robbie. In fifteen years, you’ll probably see him in detention.”

Charles laughed. “Hi, Robbie. Nice to meet you.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

“Sure.”

Lorna handed the baby over to Charles, and Robbie sat smiling in his lap, happy as a clam.

Before Erik knew what he was doing, he had his phone out. “Do you mind if I take a picture?” Charles said no, and smiled for Erik.

He held up his phone and took a snapshot –Charles and the baby: the perfect image of the life he didn’t have – and put the phone away.

Just then, Lorna’s phone started vibrating and she took a peek at a text. “I’m sorry, guys. My father’s out in the car. He’s here to take Robbie and give me a break for the night.”

“Of course,” Charles said, and handed the baby back to Lorna, who grabbed him and the diaper bag and headed for the parking lot.

Erik and Charles stood, too, and continued walking away from the party. They climbed up to the top of the bleachers and sat down to take a breather and observe the festivities from above.

“This is much better," Erik said. "I almost can’t even hear the Thong Song from here.”

Charles smiled. “A minor miracle.”

Erik let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in and relaxed. He may be dead by Monday morning, but he’ll have died having seen Charles again.

“Do you know I have recurring dreams about you?” he asked. “Five nights a week, on and off for the past… nine and a half years? Did I tell you that?”

Charles turned, saw the way Erik was looking at him, and blushed.

“I have to admit, I have always wondered what these past ten years might have done to you. What sort of state you might be in if I ever saw you again.”

“And are you disappointed?”

“Hardly.”

They both pretended they weren’t smiling.

Erik spoke first: “So yesterday, when you humiliated me in front of your class –”

“No less than you deserved.”

“Of course.” Erik grinned. “Did you mean it, though? Were you really sad and abandoned and rejected and deserted...”

The smile faded from Charles’ face. “That was a long time ago, Erik.”

“Is there any chance at all that you could forgive and forget?”

Charles sighed. “One thing I've learned is that sometimes it's best to forget about forgiving and just accept.”

“And you think you could accept me? For who I am? Who I’ve become?”

“Well, I think I'd like to try.”

And at that, Erik couldn't wait one more second before finally kissing Charles, pressing into him with his whole body. And when he pulled back to take a breath, he expected Charles to push him away, but he didn’t – Charles grabbed him by his tie and pulled him closer.   


Erik raked his fingers through the short cropped hair at the back of Charles' neck, a tactile reminder that this was not the floppy-haired boy who haunted his dreams, but the real, live man whose heart he'd broken but who still loved him anyway, who was voluntarily and enthusiastically nipping at his bottom lip, whose hands were gripping passionately at his waist.

When they parted, Charles’ eyes were wild. He took in the view of the party. “What do you say we find someplace a bit more private?”

Erik whimpered and nodded his head, and together they descended the bleachers and left the gym.

They made their way through the school’s halls, groping at each other and making out the whole way.

Finally, Charles pressed Erik against a door and, with his right hand still half in Erik's pants, used his left to turn the knob and open the door.

Erik looked around, and huffed with surprise, “The nurse's office?”

“I don't feel well,” Charles smirked.

“Leave it to you to find the one room in the school with condoms and lube.”

“This is not the only room in the school with condoms and lube, but you've already seen my classroom, so.”

Erik barked a laugh. “And all this time I thought I was the evil one.”

“You underestimate me.”

“I could never.”

Charles kissed him again and shut the door behind them.

*

They emerged from the nurse’s office over an hour later, looking completely debauched, having made creative use not only of Nurse Jackson’s condoms and lube, but also the medical tape, tongue depressors, stethoscope, an Ace bandage, and the blood pressure cuff. Erik never felt happier or healthier in his life.

“I think the best thing for us right now,” he mumbled, his tongue still in Charles’ mouth, “Would be to go away somewhere for a few weeks, work this whole thing out.”

Charles pulled away from him with a loopy smile on his face. “Mind if I go use the men’s room first?”

“Not at all.” Erik was panting. “I think I’m gonna go cruise by my old locker.”

“Okay. I’ll find you,” Charles said, kissed him once more, and walked away.

Erik spun dizzily around and walked in the other direction.

This is good, he was thinking. This is right. This is where he should have been all along. And screw Dr. Frost, with her you-should-be-admitted, rooted-in-the-me psycho babble. This was what he needed.

He smiled to himself, turned the corner, and found himself face to face with Logan Carcajou’s pistol.

Logan was big, but he wasn’t fast, and Erik knocked the gun out of his hand before he could pull the trigger. It hit the floor and slid down the hall, too far for either of them to grab it.

Logan was tall, too, and when Erik spun a kick around to his head, he only got him in the chest, and Logan grabbed his leg and threw him to the ground.

Erik punched him in the solar plexus from below, and used the half second Logan took to catch his breath to get up and put a strangle hold around Logan’s neck. It was no use, though: Logan was too big for him, and he knocked Erik down again.

This time Erik kicked him in the groin and, when Logan buckled over, put the heel of his hand to Logan’s nose. And oh, it did feel good to break the bastard’s nose. Erik grabbed him by the throat and jammed him up against the lockers, and this time he managed to knock Logan to the ground.

He had him. He was sitting on Logan’s chest, holding Logan’s arms down with his knees. The huge man was writhing beneath him, and with his superior strength, Erik had only seconds to take advantage of his perch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out Hank’s pen, popped off the cap, and jammed it into Logan’s jugular.

Logan gurgled and gasped as ink and blood spilled over the high school hallway, and, just in case bleeding to death wasn’t enough, Erik pressed his free hand against Logan’s wind pipe and suffocated him. Erik relished watching Logan’s face turn purple, and with one last twitch, Logan fell limp, dead by Erik’s hand.

Erik was panting. Exhausted. Covered in blood and sweat and ink.

He wiped his brow and turned to his left.

There was Charles. Staring at him. He had the same expression on his face as he did in all of Erik’s nightmares.

Erik panicked. “It’s not me!” he panted.

Charles looked horrified. _You’re a monster, Erik_ , he’d said in his dreams.

It was time for Erik to remember who he really was.

So he stood up, brushed himself off, and pulled down the BELIEVE AND ACHIEVE banner that was hanging above the lockers. He used it to wrap up Logan’s body.

Charles stepped forward, still gaping in open horror, “He’s dead? Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead.” He looked up and saw another banner hanging over Charles’ head. It said KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. Erik pointed up at it. “Pull that down.” Charles did as he was told, jumped up and grabbed the banner, and handed it to Erik, who used it to mop up the blood. “This man is an international terrorist, sent here to kill me. I got him first.”

Charles was still agog as he watched Erik try to pick up Logan’s dead, wrapped, limp, enormous body.

Erik lifted Logan by the shoulders and told Charles, “Grab his feet.”

Charles swallowed deeply and did as he was told.

“Where’s the boiler room?”

Charles nodded behind him, and together they carried Logan down the mathematics hallway, past the computer lounge, down the stairs, around the corner by the principal’s office, and into the boiler room, where Erik opened up the furnace and shoved in Logan’s body.

The look of terror on Charles’ face still hadn’t subsided when they stepped back out into the hallway and let Logan burn.

“Don’t worry,” Erik told him, “Nobody’s going to come looking for that guy.”

Charles’ face twisted, his jaw clenched, his eyes burned.

He put out his hand. “Hi. I’m Charles Xavier. I teach high school English. What do you do, Erik?”

Erik’s eyes welled and his lower lip trembled and he said, “I’m a professional killer.”

Charles couldn’t even look him in the eye. He just shook his head and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Hello, Dr. Frost. This is Erik Lehnsherr. I just wanted to let you know that the reunion went really well. Charles and I are in love and we're running away together. We're going to move to Hawaii. Live on a pineapple farm. Adopt twelve kids. Teach them how to surf. And I don't need you anymore, and I don't think you ever cared about me or about the therapy, and I don’t think you were helpful to me in any way, so I want you to take a deep breath, and realize that this is me firing you.”

Click.

 

*

 

“Pacific Trident Global, how may I direct your call?”

“Raven? It's me. Plan Z,” he said, Plan Z being their last resort.

“Are you sure? Plan Z?”

“Torch it, Raven. I hired you for your arson experience, not your can-do attitude.”

Erik's unassuming, unremarkable office building would be destroyed in an electrical fire by morning. Faulty wiring. What a shame.

“Right.” She didn't sound surprised. “Consider it done.”

“Oh, and Raven?”

“Yeah?”

“The key to the safe is in the top drawer of my desk. There's a box in there shaped like a banana, and it's stuffed with cash. Consider it your severance package. Nice knowing you, kid.”

He thought he heard her cheering “Woo hoo!” in the background as he ended the call.

Erik was laying limp across the motel bed, and though his hand was on the television remote and flicking through the channels, his eyes were on the ceiling, staring despondently at the water damage above him. What a dump. But then, a monster like him should be living under a bridge somewhere. Maybe he should have just built a nest for himself under the Tappan Zee and fed on stranded drivers. Really he should just give up all vestiges of his latent humanity. Have weapons surgically attached to his hands. Shave his head and start wearing a helmet instead. Go nocturnal and start drinking blood.

It was hard to tell how long he'd been laying there like that, (time is a human concept that he probably didn't deserve to use,) but the bedside clock read 11:52 when someone knocked on his door.

 _Shaw_ , he thought, and sat bolt upright, gun in hand. He turned off the TV, crept towards the door, held the weapon steady in front of him, and turned the doorknob.

On the other side, Charles looked furious.

“Put. The gun. Down.”

Erik sheepishly lowered the weapon and put it on the desk. “I'm sorry,” he said, and hung his head, “I thought you were someone else.”

Charles stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Erik watched his frown grow deeper as his eyes scanned over the desk to the open case full of automatic weapons.

“I didn't lie to you,” Erik said. “You chose not to believe me when I told you what I did. I would never lie to you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? 'Oh, he's a psychopathic murderer, but at least he's honest about it?'”

“I'm not a psychopath,” he protested. “A psychopath kills for fun. This is my job.”

“Explain,” Charles demanded. “Explain to me why you turned the janitor's closet at my school into a crematorium.”

“When I joined the army, my psyche profile fit a kind of... moral flexibility that made me very... useful to them. So I was trained as a sniper and loaned out to a CIA-sponsored program.”

“So you're what? A government spook?” Charles sneered.

“No, not anymore. I was miserable there. I hated it. A couple of years ago I got out and started my own business. No more working for Uncle Sam.”

Charles was nearly shaking with rage. “Ugh, god, Erik, for fuckssake. You want to be your own boss? You open a fucking Etsy store; you don't kill people!”

“But it doesn't matter now! I'm done with it! I'm getting out. This isn’t the life I want anymore. I’ve changed.”

“We got back together for less than two hours and you made me accessory to murder in the school where I teach!” he screamed. “Which is the part where you've changed?”

It took Erik a few seconds to calm the part of his mind that was celebrating the words “back together” coming out of Charles' mouth.

“I’ve lost my taste for it. Completely,” Erik pleaded. “I can’t do it anymore, Charles. I've bottomed out. You should see me – I’m a mess. I mean, ask my shrink!” He almost laughed. “I need to move on. I thought coming here, seeing you…”

“Oh, so I'm what? Your romantic new beginning? Fuck you!” and he surprised Erik with a right hook that sent him stumbling into the dresser.

Erik felt Charles leave more than he saw it. He couldn’t bear to watch him go. He shut his eyes rather than see the hurt and disgust on Charles' face as he slammed the motel room door and walked away forever.

Charles was right: he couldn't change. He could never have anything more than this. He wasn't a person. He was a weapon. Nothing he could do would prove to Charles that he wasn't a monster.

And for the first time in months, Erik felt like killing someone.

The dossier for the weekend’s job was still sitting on the dresser, and he tore it open with bloodthirsty relish.

The mark: Sharon Xavier.

Mrs. X. Charles’ mom.

 

*

 

The next morning, Mrs. X was power walking in a pink velour tracksuit three blocks away from the house when Erik pulled up in his rental car. At the other end of the street, Erik spotted Shaw in an unmarked white van with an arsenal of weapons and four other men. And Erik knew he didn't need all that to cap Mrs. X – they were there mainly for him.

Erik screeched the car to a stop between Mrs. X and Shaw's van.

“Mrs. X!” he called. “It's me! It's Erik! Get in the car!”

She peered at him over her sunglasses. “Erik? I think not. I don't know what happened between you and Charles last night, but--”

“GET IN THE CAR, MRS. XAVIER! AND KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”

She sneered at him and climbed in the passenger seat.

Erik tossed the dossier at her as they sped off. “You've been in bed with some filthy bastards, Mrs. X.”

“I like bad boys. Charles and I have that in common.”

“Yeah, well, I hope they were worth it because there's a contract out on your life. Believe me – I was the one hired to kill you.”

“You're going to kill me?”

“No, I'm going to save you.” He jerked the steering wheel and sent the car up over the curb in front of the X-Mansion and onto the grass. “Now get inside!” Erik grabbed his weapons case from the back seat and followed Mrs. X up the driveway and into the house.

Charles ran into the foyer to see what the commotion was. “Mom! What... what is he doing here?” he pointed at Erik.

“They're trying to kill me! Erik saved my life!”

“What?”

Erik opened his weapons case and pulled out two hand-held semi-automatic pistols. “That night after graduation, I went to the cemetery to visit my parents' graves, show them my diploma. And I was sitting there, in that disgusting old cap and gown, and that fifty dollar suit, and I realized, for the first time, that I wanted to kill someone. So, since I loved you so much, I thought it would be best if I never saw you again. Duck.”

Charles and Mrs. X dropped to the ground and Erik sent two bullets over their heads and through the front door. He then stepped around them to push the door open. One of Shaw's goons was twitching on the ground, and Erik sent two more shots to center mass and one to the head, just to be sure.

Erik closed up his weapons case and led them down the hallway.

“I was an angry kid! I had a lot of shitty cards dealt to me and I had a lot of aggression I needed to get out of my system. But that's normal – a lot of young men feel that way. The army is full of them. But most of them get the chance to grow out of it. I was never allowed to.” He turned around and shot at another of Shaw's henchmen, who was lurking beyond the french windows in the parlor. In going for the man's head, Erik clipped the antique wing-back chair.

“Sorry about the chair. I'll get it reupholstered for you.”

They just gaped at him.

“Anyway, I was in the Gulf last year. I was doing this thing – doesn't matter. I came over a dune and I saw the ocean, and it was on fire. It was so beautiful, Charles. I wish you could have seen it. And I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt anything like that. And I had the sneaking suspicion that maybe there was more to life, that maybe it wasn't too late, that maybe I could be more than just a gun after all.”

Shaw's voice echoed from somewhere in the house: “You're breaking my heart in there, loverboy!”

They were in the kitchen now, and at the sound of footsteps, Erik spun around. But it wasn't Shaw, just another of his men, and Erik shot him twice in the chest. When he fell, Erik pulled down a cast-iron skillet and beat him over the head with it. The frying pan let out a satisfying clang as it crushed the man's skull.

Erik threw the brain-splattered pan into the sink and turned. “Charles. I'm in love with you. And I think we can make this relationship work. Get in the bathroom.” He pushed Charles and Mrs. X into the downstairs bathroom. “Get in the tub. Keep your heads down.”

Erik reloaded his weapons and handed Charles a compact semi-automatic. “Take this, just in case. Do you need me to make it work?”

Charles cocked the gun like a pro. “I lived in Florida for five years. I know how to shoot a gun.”

And Erik... went a little hazy there watching Charles with the gun. That was... He'd have to remember that image for later.

Shaw's voice from down the hall: “They don't own any pets, do they? I know what a dog lover you are!”

Erik snapped back to reality. “I'll be back. Keep your heads down.” And he shut the bathroom door.

The hallway was quiet.

Erik readied himself and crept toward the Xaviers' living room. The fourth of Shaw's men popped up from behind the sofa, and Erik brought him down with one shot.

“Those were your guys?” he called out to Shaw, wherever he was. “They were your 'Brotherhood'? I didn't think you hung out with such amateurs.”

Shaw emerged from behind him and said, “Why do you think I'm recruiting you?”

They both shot at the same time, but both moved and dove for cover. Erik hunkered down on one side of the couch and Shaw on the other.

“Last chance, Erik,” Shaw called over to him.

“Not interested.” He stood up and attempted another shot at Shaw, but just then, Moira MacTaggert and Joseph Quinn appeared on the patio.

“NATIONAL SECURITY!” Moira shouted and opened fire, but Erik and Shaw were the faster guns, and they both stood up and unloaded their weapons on the two NSA agents.

Moira and Quinn had only just hit the ground when Erik realized that he was out of ammunition and ducked back behind the sofa.

Fuck.

He hoped Shaw hadn't noticed.

He looked around the Xaviers' living room. There had to be something around he could use against Shaw. What were the odds that Mrs. X kept a weapon under the loveseat? Slim to none. Her smutty paperback was on the coffee table; that wouldn't work. The lamp looked pretty heavy, he thought, but it was just out of reach.

“What's the matter, Lehnsherr? You out?”

Erik said nothing.

“What are you going to do? Throw that gun at me?”

Erik started to panic.

“I'll tell you what. Join the union, I'll let you live, and we can go kill mom together. What do you say?”

“Never!” Erik closed his eyes and waited for the end.

Shots rang out.

One. Two.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

And Erik was... not dead. He opened his eyes and peered around the couch.

There was Charles, standing over Shaw's lifeless body, the gun still smoking in his hands. Erik never saw anything more beautiful in his life.

“Charles, will you marry me?”

Charles just stood there, panting and staring at Erik.

Mrs. X, kneeling in the hallway, peeked her head around the corner. “You've got my blessing,” she said, and slumped to the ground.

 

*

 

Erik decided to keep his room at the motel for another night, mostly because he didn't know what else to do. He should probably give up his apartment in California, assuming Raven didn't take the initiative to torch that, too. Besides, he was out of a job, and he didn't exactly have the kind of resume he could fax to potential employers.

So he kicked back, ordered a pizza, turned on the TV, and tried to muster the courage to check in on Charles. Erik didn't care how angry Charles may be, he was not going to leave town without saying goodbye. Eventually that schnauzer incident was going to catch up with him, and Erik didn't want to die without having said goodbye. Again.

There was nothing good on TV, not that he actually wanted to watch anything. He just wanted the noise, the artificial company.

When Erik heard a knock at the door, he was tempted to leave his gun where it was and approach the pizza guy with only his wallet, like normal people do. But he was still a long way from normal. He stuck the pistol in his belt with a sigh and opened the door.

The pizza guy was just a pizza guy. The pie was topped with pepperoni, not explosives. He gave the kid thirty bucks and told him to keep the change.

When he shut the door and put the pizza box down on the table, he realized he didn't have any plates or napkins, so he opened the door to go chase the kid down. Maybe he had some in the car.

But the pizza guy had gone, and Charles was standing in his place.

Before Erik could say anything, Charles reached behind his back and pulled out a gun.

“You left this at my house,” he said.

Erik sighed with relief and took the pistol from him. “Thanks.”

Charles stepped inside and cleared his throat. “The other night at the reunion, you suggested we go away for a few weeks and work everything out. Is that offer still on the table?”

Erik thought perhaps he did die that morning. Maybe this was heaven.

“I would go anywhere with you,” he beamed, then thought better of it. “Except there are a couple of cities we should probably avoid if you don't want to be shot at.”

“I'm sure we can find someplace quiet,” Charles said, and he grabbed Erik by his black t-shirt and kissed him with with everything he had.

 

THE END.


End file.
